Making the Best Chicken Sandwich
by Myrrsha
Summary: Donald Trump and Gordon Ramsay find love in the most unexpected of places. Fuck it we're all dying anyway might as well buy a one-way ticket to hell


Fuck it we're all gonna die anyway

* * *

Making the Best Chicken Sandwich

The screen in the vast living room flickered, an object of interest for the sole person watching it.

The living room itself was quite expansive, white marble with gold accents and luxurious jewels encrusted in furniture and columns. The TV screen itself was huge, the latest plasma touch-screen expanding to the size of a small theatre screen. Arguing and bloody insults could be heard from the speakers. These harsh words would've made any man curl up and cry like a baby.

But this man was no ordinary man.

This man was Donald Trump.

A slight smile graced Donald's worm-lips. The object of his affection, the apple of his eye, was the one who flung profanity from his mouth like a gorilla at a zoo flinging poop at fascinated visitors. Yet, a screen separated them. The worms on Donald's face wiggled downwards to a slight scowl, digging into the creases of his face as if they still lived in the earth. But they didn't live in the dirt any longer. _Dirt would be wonderful right now_ , Donald thought to himself.

And then the doorbell rang.

The earthworms pulled themselves upwards as Donald frolicked to the door. He skipped high, shoulders pulled upwards and wrists flinging from side to side, his head jerking in rhythm with his hands. _It is a beautiful sight_ , Donald thought to himself. _I am truly beautiful._

But it was ugly.

He romped gleefully through the hallway to the main entrance, too excited to gaze upon the oil paintings of his face that adorned the walls. Usually, he would spend hours of his day admiring the art. Not the artist's skill of course, for there was no artist or camera on earth who could capture his beauty. But he would gaze longingly at the paintings, struggling to comprehend what he truly looked like, for nothing could capture his attractiveness. Mirrors used to break all the time when he was a child. His mother told him it was because they simply could not capture his beauty, especially of his hair. So, alas, his curse was that he could never know the true caliber of his gorgeousness.

But tonight was not about him. It was about his unrequited love.

He finally reached the entrance, excited but exhausted. He never walks that far in more than a day, much less skips. But tonight was special. He'd even sent his servants home, so him and his soon-to-be lover could have alone time. Because who could reject someone like him?

He rested his wrinkled hand on the door. Sudden nervousness shot through him. What if tonight didn't go as planned? What if he was…rejected? He shuddered. He'd never been rejected before. He'd never tried to romance anyone before, either; he had always treated everyone as if they were below him.

The doorbell rang again, disrupting his thoughts. He shook his head, toupee shaking everywhere. _No,_ he thought, _I won't fail. I came from poverty! I had to make it on my own with only a million dollars… I can do this!_

He flung the door open, a determined and gleeful smile on his face. He held his arms wide open in greeting to his companion. He'd waited a while for this, and he could contain his excitement no more!

"Donald!"

The visitor held their arms open in the same fashion, a bottle of champagne in their right hand. They greeted with a hug. Donald took this chance to inhale the guest's aromatic scent. They smelled of charcoal and spices.

They smelled beautiful. Even as beautiful as Donald himself.

Donald pushed those thoughts aside. _Not now. I can't think like that, not while he's here…_

"So, Gordon, ready for some marathoning?"

Gordon smiled, shuffling into the enormous mansion, eyes wide in wonder, mouth slightly agape and smiling. "Yeah, sure…" he breathed, enraptured in the ornateness of the decorum around him. Donald was enraptured, too… his eyes were transfixed upon Gordon's lips. He began to blush, akin to a schoolgirl getting her first crush. He shook his head again, toupee-hair spreading wildly like an angry mustang fighting over its mate.

"It's right this way, Gordon," Donald said, masking his child-like glee behind an uncharacteristic friendly smile. He only shows this side to a very select few, Gordon being one of them. They began to make their way towards the TV room, of course through the long hallway of Donald paintings. Gordon's head swerved from left to right, taking in all the detail as if he was judging a stupid contestant on Hell's Kitchen. Donald realized this metaphor, and began to panic inwardly. What would Gordon think of these paintings? What if he thought they were…

…ugly?

"Wow, this is a lot of, um…" Gordon stopped for a bit.

Donald stopped too. He began to sweat nervously. The Trump never sweats. "Yeah, I'm sorry, they're kind of, um…" his mind went into overdrive, clambering for an excuse to avoid relentless judgement from the connoisseur.

"They're…beautiful!"

Donald's mouth opened in shock, the slimy worms parting and leaving residue for a second. "W-what?"

"Yeah! I love them!" Gordon's face was even wider than it was before. He began to twirl. "They're absolutely stunning!"

Gordon stopped twirling, and without stopping himself, said, "Of course, they don't match up to the real thing."

Donald was reeling. Had he just heard correctly? Did THE Gordon Ramsay call him…beautiful? "R-really?"

Gordon stopped, the realization of what he said dawning on his face. "U-um, what I meant to say was, they're really good paintings! But the artist's skill isn't THAT realistic, so, um, it doesn't really compare to real life…" Gordon trailed off lamely, scratching the back of his head. Yet, Donald wasn't very bright, and thought he was serious. "Oh… yeah, I guess you're right."

They continued awkwardly down the hallway, unsure of where the little event put them. As they entered the TV room, Gordon's child-like excitement came through once again. "Woah! This is bigger than half my house!"

Donald's spirits lifted again at the return of his crush's enthusiasm. "So, you ready for the marathon?" Donald said, motioning to the TV. "All of Hell's Kitchen seasons recorded, in prep for tonight."

Gordon smiled, and lifted the bottle of Dom Pérignon, indicating at the need for glasses. "Sure, let's get ready."

A few minutes later, they'd settled in on the couch in front of the TV, champagne in hand, prepared for the marathon. Gordon frowned slightly, and Donald noticed. "What's wrong? Forget something?" real concern was etched across his face. This evening HAD to be perfect, especially with the incident at the portrait hall earlier. The worms trembled at the memory.

"No, it's just the lights," Gordon commented, motioning upwards. Donald smirked, and gave Gordon a confident look, before raising his hands and clapping twice. The lights dimmed to the perfect low brightness, which amused Gordon greatly.

 _There goes that beautiful child-like innocence again._ Donald was head over heels, and he knew it.

Shoving those thoughts away, he commented, "Alright, let's get started." And so they did.

* * *

A few episodes into the first season, the pair was happily buzzed, and laughing boisterously at anything- from idiot guests on the show to funny stories. After a while, they quieted down a bit, and the volume of the TV was turned down a few notches. _This is my chance,_ Donald thought. He took in a deep, silent breath, nose hairs waving in the wind.

"So, uh, you fancy anyone?"

Gordon paused, seeming to need to take a moment to process his thoughts through the slight haze. "Yeah, but he's outta my league."

Donald laughed. "'He'? I didn't know you swung that way, Gordy." Gordon chuckled at the nickname, not even the slightest bit embarrassed at the revealing of his preference. "Yeeeeahhh… whu'bout chu?" he slurred, overtaken by a newfound tiredness.

Donald couldn't help but stare straight into Gordon's beautiful icy blue eyes. "He's outta my league, too."

Everything around the two seemed to dissolve, including the chef's tiredness. They leaned in a bit closer, slowly, slowly…

Until their lips finally met.

Fireworks shot through both of the lovers, urging them to move in closer. It was, admittedly, awkward, as it was the first kiss between the two, but they enjoyed it thoroughly, but broke apart in the need for air.

Gordon paused, gazing curiously at Donald's lips, licking his own slightly. Donald picked up on his partner's curiosity. "Is something the matter?"

"No, it's just…your lips, they're, uh… different," he blundered awkwardly, trying not to offend. Donald felt a fart coming on, a cursed reaction to anxiety. He felt a pit welling in his stomach.

"I-is that…bad?" Donald tried to shield his hurt behind his eyes. Gordon looked up in shock. "No no no! I like it! I-it just caught me by surprise, is all!" Donald felt relief course through him, and felt it would be easy to tell the truth. "They're, uh, worms…"

Gordon stopped, and regret bubbled in Donald's body again. He felt another fart coming on.

But suddenly, Gordon leaned in again, whispering seductively, "It's better than Escargo." And they made contact again, kissing passionately. This time, it went further than just a simple French kiss. Oh no, they were full grown adults, not some impetuous teenagers. They had desires that had to be met. And they both knew it.

The two lovers quivered in anticipation, lust overtaking both of their bodies. No communication was needed between the two to understand the consent. If they had souls, they would be totally in sync right now.

They leaned backwards, Gordon on top, kissing passionately. It began to escalate when Gordon lifted Donald's shirt, his ugly wrinkled body shivering at the cold air's touch. But Gordon did not think it was ugly. He could not see the truth.

Gordon began caressing the wrinkles, turned on by their texture. Now, both of the millionaires were getting on in years, and their bodies were not like they used to be. But this didn't stop them. They loved each other, and no amount of age could stop them from getting what they wanted.

"Do you want to take this a step further?"

Gordon's implication excited Donald. He nodded, and they stood up walking briskly towards Donald's bedroom, him leading Gordon by holding his hand. He pushed open the ornate double doors, revealing a vast bedroom with the largest bed Gordon had ever seen, with maroon and gold drapes and diamond encrusted frame making up the intricate bed. Donald's worms crawled upwards at the corners of his mouth, excited for what may come. In a sweeping motion, he directed Gordon towards the bed, attempting to keep an air of royalty to him. But he wasn't royal or regal. He was far from it. If only he saw what the American citizens saw.

"My prince," Donald said to Gordon. He ushered the chef forth, the faintest reaches of moonlight illuminating the royal bed.

Once on the bed, Gordon assumed the top position once again. They began starting the cycle once more, entranced in each other's touches. Gordon's hands made their way down to the zipper of Donald's pants. Donald made an uncomfortable noise, halting Gordon's advances. "Is something wrong?"

Flustered, Donald made a move to get up. "I-I'm, um…I'm sorry!" he shouted, surprising Gordon. He sat up on the edge of his shared bed, suddenly feeling not ready. "Did I do something wrong?" Gordon queried, panicking. Donald sighed. "No, it's just… I've never been this far before." Gordon was taken aback. Something as beautiful a creature as the Donald Trump, had never felt pleasure…?

"I just... wouldn't want it to be bad for you, y'know?"

New determination filling him, Gordon pushed his partner back onto the bed, pinning him underneath his crusty old man body. Somehow planking without the use of his hands, he reached into his back pockets and whipped out two slices of bread, smooshing Donald's face between them, ferocity filling his features.

"WHAT ARE YOU?"

Donald was filled with fear, but he knew what to do. "A-an idiot sandwich…?"

Gordon's features softened, and he relaxed. "Yeah. I don't mind. I want to be with you, and give you a good time. No matter what." Donald smiled at this proposition, feeling ready.

Gordon's hands trailed down towards his pants once again, gently taking those and Donald's tighty-whities off. Gordon reached down, and…

…pulled back in shock. What else was wrong?

Gordon was staring at Donald's small, pale member. "Is something the matter?" Donald asked, pulling Gordon from his thoughts.

"Uh, no, it's just…" Gordon's face twisted, scouring for the right word. "It's just… uncooked."

Donald didn't know what to say. Yeah, he supposed his skin DID look akin to an uncooked chicken. It'd never seen any action. For the millionth time that night, he felt unsure. "Do you want to-"

"No," Gordon cut him off. A smirk flashed across his face. "I can handle any kind of meat."

Donald felt assured by this sly remark, and felt enticed to add his own. "A-are you gonna let me cook it?" he asked, worms trembling nervously but slightly confidently as well.

Humor flashed across the cook's eyes, and he chuckled faintly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He began to strip slowly, as their making out had intensified. Finally their wrinkly bodies were void of any clothes. Donald reached back and patted Gordon's butt. "Nice buns," he commented. "May I toast them?"

Both knew what this would ensue, and they were visibly excited. They switched positions, Donald taking the top, and he sloppily flipped his lover over. He began to cook his own chicken, the heat simultaneously warming up Gordon's buns. "Toasty buns," Donald said. "It's making a nice chicken sandwich."

Soon, Donald noticed white stuff dribbling out of the sandwich. He didn't know what this was. Was it healthy? He decided to ask the more experienced connoisseur about this phenomenon. "What's this white stuff?"

He felt Gordon's breathing hitch slightly, his back stiffening before relaxing. "It's, ah, mayonnaise."

Donald did not understand this. He felt dumb. Which he was. He decided this was beyond his computing power, and elected to go with it. "Yeah, every good chicken sandwich needs mayonnaise."

They continued on this way, both enjoying a good chicken sandwich. After a while of indulging themselves, they rolled over and met each other's eyes. Donald had never had a chicken sandwich like this before. He like it, but he was content already. He could tell that Gordon was ready for more, but he respected his partner and the glimmer of longing in his eyes faded to give way to complicity.

"I've never had a chicken sandwich like this before, ever. I didn't know you could add mayonnaise. No one ever told me," Donald remarked. "I've never had that much mayonnaise before. It was great," Gordon added. They both smiled, and eventually gave way to slumber, entangled in each other.

* * *

The next morning, Donald awoke to a strange smell. He looked over at the empty spot next to him. Was it all a dream? A sweet, intoxicating dream filled with the irresistible nectar of love? But then he saw the mayonnaise, and noticed that his chicken felt thoroughly cooked and moist. He smiled at the remembrance of last night's session, and felt like he'd been through Heaven's Kitchen, not Hell's. He decided to attend to the smell, his bland imagination coming up with possibilities.

Waddling to the kitchen where the smell was coming from, he noticed that his lover was standing in front of the stove, focused on the task at pan. Smiling once again, he wrapped his hands around the man's waist, and mumbled a "good morning" into his ear. "Do you want to make another chicken sandwich?"

He heard Gordon chuckle. "No, it's too early in the morning for that. But we have pancakes," he said, motioning to the pan in front of him. Donald realized how hungry he was, even after last night.

They sat, content, in the dining room, watching the sun rise through the windows. Donald stopped a moment, taking in the morning and how perfect it was, and how Gordon's blue eyes shone like the morning sky in the sunlight. How could he deserve such a perfect man? He twisted his neck to observe this perfect man, neck blubber flapping unattractively, just like the rest of him.

He sighed contently, happy that he was able to share his feelings with the one he loved. _We can be happy together,_ he thought to himself. After they'd both finished, a comfortable interlude of silence remained between them. Suddenly, Gordon broke this silence.

"You wanna make another chicken sandwich?"

Donald's content worms turned upwards to a smirk. "With extra mayonnaise this time?"

And off they headed to the secondary "kitchen".


End file.
